Date: Thu, 27 Aug 1998 00:56:15, -0500 Subject: Saga of Cold Miner Dick at LT100, pt. 2 Part 2: MINING THE STORE, Or, Secretly Firebombing the Place So, I was hanging around the office water cooler today, and what do I notice but two very insignificant things: 1) I misspelled Hinckley & Schmitt in my not-so-hot introductory episode to this very-cold saga, and 2) the jug guy still hasn't been here! It's been, what, two whole weeks? What are we supposed to drink at the office, sink sludge? Maybe we're expected to hang on every precious word that comes out of the boss's mouth and possibly absorb some saliva? Heck, even the sponges IN the sink are dry. And I'm dry. I am so thoroughly dehydrated after coming back from Leadville, you couldn't squeeze enough moisture out of me to wet a stamp. (You probably figured by now that I'm going to be telling this story in flashback, right? I mean, unless you actually expected me to climb Hope's Pass--TWICE--with a laptop, modem, cellular phone, and one helluva lot of batteries, I couldn't exactly report back to you as I was going along, now could I? Oh sure, I could do like my last year-long "legend" and pretend to be running along and reporting at the same time, but then I got too many criticisms about being overly squeamish about getting shot by stray hunters' bullets or eaten by hungry mountain lions; so, this time I thought I wouldn't pretend ANYTHING--well, some things--and just give it to you straight: from the vantage point of a survivor, hanging around the water cooler weeks later, remembering the titanical shipwreck. All in flashback, as is the fashion of some of our slickest most modern cinematographers.) But even in my thirst I pause, of course, before I actually hold my empty paper cup beneath the boss's chin, and remember something that should be significant right about now anyway--the title of all this nonsense: "The Saga of Cold Miner Dick--Who Only Wants, Once, Just To Throw A Pickax Like Mr. Presnell Did In 'The Unsinkable Molly Brown' And Strike A Vein Of Leadville Gold, In Mid-Song No Less, And Walk Away A Very "Rich" Man From, Or--At The Leadville Trail 100 Mile Run For 1998." For one hundred miles, with each and every single rock I kicked up, stumbled on, dislodged, tripped over, or fell upon, I announced to anyone within earshot whether or not I had discovered a lost vein of gold. Most of the time, as you might expect, my report was in the negative. The one time I did discover a lost vein, however, it turned out to already be mine. And in my wounded delerium I actually thought it was spewing forth gold. But (and you will not believe this, I'm sure) once when I was announcing my lack of discovery to anyone within earshot, I was actually answered by "The Unsinkable Molly" herself. Hmmm. Let's see. Your computer screen should be wrinkling right about now. Your background music should pulsate or waver, and you should be understanding that--here comes a flashback: "No gold here," I announce after tripping. "No, not very likely," comes this sweet female voice behind me. "You know these parts?" "I live in Leadville," the sweet voice says. "Not much gold left, huh?" "Never was much. Leadville was never known for gold. Silver though..." "Well, I didn't kick over any silver either." "No, not very likely." "If I do, though, you realize I'm going to have to stop running and stake my claim." "Ha! I think somebody else already owns it." "I'll mark the spot and come back at night." "I'll tell!" "Work with me and I'll pay you not to." "Ha! I'm no miner!" And with that, she passes me by on the trail. "Ha! I can see that," I say. "Very plainly! You're certainly all grown up now! You're looking great!" "Ha! Thanks," she calls over her shoulder. "My name's Rich, by the way." "And I'm Molly." "No." "Yes!" "You gotta be fooling me." "No!" "It is? Your name is Molly and you're from Leadville?" "Actually, I grew up near Detroit." "But...you're Molly. The 'unsinkable' Molly Brown?" "Actually, I'm the 'unsinkable' Molly Barnes. My friends all call me 'Sinky.'" "You're kidding." "No." "OK. But now I have to ask you the big question." By this time, since I've been watching her for several minutes, I can tell she's significantly younger than I am (and Debbie Reynolds too, for that matter). "What's the 'big question'?" she asks. "Have you actually seen the movie 'The Unsinkable Molly Brown'?" "No." I knew it. Of course not. That would be too easy. That would make all my subsequent references to music and history and literature much too easy to comprehend. No, if I'm going to entertain this "sweet young thang" who's now kicking my butt in this hundred-mile race, I'm going to have to modernize my cinematography a tad. "'The Titanic,'" I say. "Surely you've seen THAT!" "Oh sure," she says. "Well, Molly Brown was in that." "Oh yes." "It's how she got her name." "She was great in the movie." "She was great in real life, no? I think her taking over that lifeboat to make 'em save more people was historically accurate." "I still don't like her in real life." "Oh," I say. "You've met?" "No, silly. She's dead!" "Maybe 'unsinkable,' huh? But not 'unburiable!'" "Silly!" "So, I give. Why didn't you like the real Molly Brown?" "She took her money and moved to Denver and wanted to be a snob." "See the movie, Molly," I say. "It'll magically distort your image of her forever." "OK." "Rent it right after the race." "Sure." "You've got to see it. You live here! You're named after her!" "Nice runnin' with ya. Bye!" Swoooosh. Checked off. Just like the Nike symbol. And, wouldn't you know, she also had blue shorts. (Modest blue shorts.) So, now your computer monitor can start wrinkling again. Your background music gets woozy. YOU get woozy. And poof! You're suddenly back in the here-and-now. Welcome back. We were standing around the water cooler, remember? I was telling you about how I hate to have to work like this to support my running habits. About how the big fat boss was so unmerciful in piling on the work while I was gone--and in blaming me for everything that went wrong in my absence. About how the "other" meaning of mining is planting bombs... Anyway, I was about to ask you how edified and amazed you are at my ability to not die. Despite the bomb threats. Despite the Leadville Trail 100. ("Yawn. We're amazed," you say.) And I was about to tell you how, if I happen to be attracted to female athlete's shorts, how Molly, in fact, was attracted to my lack of socks-- or apparent lack thereof--and how glad I was, in fact, to have remembered to pack them. At one point--this is true!--when she was still behind me, she asked if I wasn't wearing any...socks. ("Hmmm," I think. "She must've been looking at my legs!") ("Hmmm," you think like "Ron's" joke. "'IT' must've been pointing to your shoes.") Well, I explained to Molly my preference for Thor-los and gave them a free pitch for their "roll top" style--the kind that just cover the foot and that's all. (To any executive, by the way, from the Thor-lo Company who happens to be reading this, uh, whatever pecuniary sponsorship might be deemed appropriate could, and would, be immediately appreciated. Thank you.) And, of course, I could equally tell she wasn't all that impressed. (With my advertising skills? Or my lack of corporate sponsorship? Only my impoverished accountant knows for sure.) [What is this thread lately--about "ultras" being, or not being, for the "rich"? Well, look at me. I've been "Rich" for over 30 years. You see where it's gotten me. (OK, over 40.)] (Hey! Are you finally believing what a fan of "Ron" I am? Mine WAS pointing to my hat, Ron!!!) :-) But (the story of my life) SHE was more interested in the socks. :-( So anyway, like I said before, we were standing around the water cooler and I was telling you about how all my heros got hurt out there in Leadville (my own here locally, Chuck Bundy, couldn't even make the trip) and NOT how they might've accidentally been involved in a bombing mishap here at the home office and how I promised them all I'd mention them here in my saga. And now, suddenly, I'm inspired with how to make you come back and read Part 3: That's when I'll tell you who they are! Rich Limacher THE ULTRA NUTTY TROUBADOUR RDJT76A@prodigy.com (Just call me "The Unblisterable Johnny Brown.")